


The Best I Could Do

by Gwyn_Paige



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, M/M, Series of Vignettes, this is not in first person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-31
Updated: 2016-08-31
Packaged: 2018-08-12 05:32:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7922395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gwyn_Paige/pseuds/Gwyn_Paige
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>McCree says "This was the best I could do" a lot. Hanzo doesn't mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Best I Could Do

**Author's Note:**

> This is something I wrote at 1 AM the night before classes started, because I'm dumb. I already posted it on my tumblr, but I've done a bit of tweaking and decided it was good enough to post on here. It's still kinda shitty, but whatever.  
> The first scenario is inspired by this very sweet comic: http://arthikki.tumblr.com/post/149470313271/mccree-is-bad-at-budgeting-dates-incidentally

“I’m sorry darlin’, but this was the best I could do,” McCree says sheepishly as he holds the glass door open for Hanzo, who steps through with as much dignity one can have as they enter a Denny’s. McCree genuinely feels bad about this; their first date had been at a fancy Japanese restaurant that didn’t even list prices on the menu, and here he was treating Hanzo to a meal at a diner chain for their second date. He’d be lucky if he lasted the evening without Hanzo walking out on him.

Hanzo scans the room with keen eyes, as though taking everything in, and McCree can’t help but join him; the fluorescent lights, the greasy booths, the loud, obnoxious families, the faux-homey atmosphere . . . goddamn, McCree is an idiot. He should’ve swallowed his pride and his wallet and taken Hanzo somewhere nice, somewhere classy and expensive that didn’t have plastic menus.

He’s about to apologize again and ask if Hanzo would rather eat somewhere else, when Hanzo turns to him and says, with a decisive nod that looks more like resignation than anything else, “This will do.”

* * *

 

“This was the best I could do,” McCree says as he hands Hanzo the mug of tea, still steaming and of questionable quality. McCree’s always been more of a coffee guy, and never quite got the appeal of putting leaves in boiling water and drinking the result, but if Hanzo wanted tea while he was sick with the flu, well then damn if McCree wasn’t gonna give it the old college try.

Hanzo takes the mug carefully, pulling his hands out from under the blanket he’s wrapped himself in, and gives it a sniff. It comes out as a wet sniffle, and McCree knows he’s too stuffed up to smell anything, but Hanzo nods like he’s some kind of a connoisseur of McCree’s shitty tea. He takes a tentative sip. McCree holds his breath.

Hanzo makes a face. It’s not a good one. Still, he swallows the mouthful he’s taken, and McCree admires his strength and bravery.

Hanzo hands the mug back to McCree and croaks, “There are still tea leaves in there.” He clears his throat, which does very little to improve his voice when he adds, “But the taste wasn’t half bad.”

* * *

 

“This is the best I can do for now, Hanzo,” McCree says, voice shaking as he applies pressure to the wound with his serape. “You’re gonna have t’ hold on till Mercy gets here.” Hanzo’s blood seeps into the fabric, dying it an even deeper red, and McCree’s heart jumps into his throat. This is worse than he thought.

Hanzo’s still conscious, but his face is growing pale and he’s starting to look a little out of it. McCree starts babbling, desperately trying to keep him from losing consciousness: “Hey, Hanzo, d’you think, once we get back to base and Mercy fixes you up, we could have another movie night? With the whole team? That’d be nice, I reckon.” McCree’s voice is shaking almost as bad as his hands. Hanzo’s blood has soaked his serape. “You can pick this time, alright, darlin’? Any movie you want. Even the ones with the subtitles. I promise I’ll pay attention and I won’t ask you what’s goin’ on every ten seconds.”

Hanzo’s eyes close. McCree almost screams, but then he sees Hanzo’s still lucid. He’s nodding, a faint, blood-tinted smile on his face. “Yes,” he says wetly, between wheezing breaths. “I’d never miss an . . . an opportunity to . . . make you watch a movie you . . . also have to read.”

When Mercy gets there, Hanzo almost immediately passes out, but not before murmuring, “Sorry about . . . the serape.”

* * *

 

“This is the best I can do, Hanzo!” McCree yells, frustrated, staring down at the page in defeat. Japanese is so damn complicated—what kind of people come up with three different kinds of letters for one language? People who probably want to screw over McCree, specifically, that’s who.

“Nonsense,” says Hanzo, who looks like he’s enjoying this a little too much. “I know you can get it. Start over from the beginning of the sentence, and try to remember what noun that is.”

“Ugh,” McCree groans, but does as he’s told. Hanzo, as it turns out, is the worst kind of teacher; the kind that won’t let you leave the classroom until you’ve finished all your work, lunch bell be damned. “The . . . apple thrown . . . no, _was_ thrown by the . . . the . . .” He wracks his brain. Remembers something. Takes a stab at it. “The priest?”

Hanzo grins wide and nudges McCree with his elbow. “See? Your best is better than you think.”

* * *

 

“I’m sorry that this is the best I can do, sweetheart,” McCree says, feeling completely inadequate as he rubs Hanzo’s back, calming strokes going up and down as he pulls Hanzo a little further into his arms. They’re kneeling uncomfortably on the bed where they ended up after Hanzo woke the both of them up half an hour ago, crying out from the throes of a nightmare.

They’ve both got pretty fucked up pasts, and neither of them are a stranger to the other waking up screaming in the middle of the night, but this one seemed to be a doozy. Hanzo’s only said a couple of words since he woke up, mostly because he’s been crying into McCree’s shoulder instead. McCree doesn’t know what to do—he just keeps murmuring the same platitudes and “shh”-ing noises, and holding Hanzo as close as he can.

His heart hurts when Hanzo gets like this—he hates to see him in pain, and it’s so much worse when McCree can’t fix it with a bandage or a serape pressed to a wound.

Eventually, Hanzo’s crying quiets, and McCree hears him murmur something against his shoulder. He pulls back gently, arms still around Hanzo. His face is a wreck, and McCree kisses his cheek: another apology. “What’d you say, sugar?”

Through the last straggling tears, the corner of Hanzo’s mouth quirks up, just slightly. “I said, ‘Thank you.’ ”

McCree shakes his head, brushing the comment away. “Ain’t nothin’, sweetheart.”

But Hanzo shakes his head too. “Jesse, your best will never be nothing.”

* * *

 

“This was the best I could do, given what was available in the kitchen,” McCree says, setting down a plate in front of Hanzo and then one for himself, “but I think you’re gonna be happy with it.”

“This looks . . . interesting,” Hanzo says, staring down at the food, not picking up his chopsticks.

“I put a southwestern twist on it,” McCree says proudly. He knows Hanzo will love it. He hopes Hanzo will love it. “I call ’em Santa Fe sushi rolls. Like California sushi rolls, but from Santa Fe. ‘Cause that’s where I’m from.” He’s a little anxious to find out if Hanzo will love it.

“I . . . see,” says Hanzo, finally picking up his chopsticks. “What is the sauce?” he says, pointing to the pool of red viscous liquid sitting next to the rolls.

“It’s a secret recipe,” McCree says. “It’s partly made of Tabasco sauce and chili powder.”

Hanzo looks at the sauce like it’s going to leap off the plate and try to strangle him. He picks up one of the rolls and does not dip it. McCree looks on impatiently.

Hanzo takes a bite and starts to chew, when suddenly his eyes go wide. He looks down at the roll in surprise, and promptly shoves the rest of it into his mouth. “This is incredible,” he says, mouth full. “What did you put in this?”

McCree shrugs, putting on a casual air even though he’s inwardly cheering. “Oh, a little a’ this, a little a’ that. Try it with the sauce.”

Hanzo’s already started on his second roll, but he pulls a face at that. “Jesse, this is delicious, but I have my limits. I _do_ value my vocal chords, you know.”

* * *

 

“This is the best I can do, Hanzo,” McCree mumbles, letting the brim of his hat hide his face so he doesn’t have to look at Hanzo looking at him. “Dirty boots, shabby clothes, missing arm, hair all over, fat on m’ belly, not a dime in my wallet—this is the best I can give you.”

He sighs and stares steadfastly at his boots. “Years ago you told me that my best would never be nothin’. Fine, it ain’t nothin’, but it ain’t much, either. I don’t wanna disappoint you. That’s the bottom line, right there, Hanzo, is that disappointin’ you would just about kill me. ‘Cept I feel like I’ve done that already, so many times, and I can’t for the life a’ me understand why you’re still here, but I’m gonna make it easy on you, Hanzo, and I’m gonna walk.”

He can’t help the tears that prick at his eyes. He’s grateful Hanzo can’t see them. “I know everyone says this, but I swear to god, Hanzo, I swear on my mama’s grave, it ain’t you, it’s me. I ain’t good enough. I did my best, and it ain’t good enough.”

His next sigh comes out too wet-sounding. “I’m real sorry, Hanzo, darlin’, I’m sorry, but I’m g—”

Someone gently removes his hat. McCree looks up, startled, forgetting to hide his face and his tears. Hanzo stands in front of him, inches away, hat clutched in both hands. There are streaks of tears down his face, matching McCree’s, but his jaw is set and his eyes are like flint.

“I love you,” Hanzo says. His voice doesn’t shake. “At your best and at your worst, I love you. With your cigars and your prosthetic and your ridiculous outfits, I love you. If you do not believe me, I will say it and continue to say it until you do. You are handsome and wonderful and I would not trade you for anything and I love you. You have never been a disappointment to me and I love you. You are more than enough and I love you. Do you understand?”

McCree sways on the spot. “Aw, shit, darlin’,” he mumbles, before collapsing into Hanzo’s waiting arms.

Several more tears are shed that night, but none of them in sadness.

* * *

 

“This was the best I could do, darlin’,” McCree says, looking up at Hanzo’s startled face from where he’s kneeling on the ground. “Wish I could’a gotten you somethin’ with jewels in it, maybe some gold, but that was a little outta my price range. Still, it’s the thought that counts, ain’t it? And the real deal is gonna be way nicer, you just wait.”

He’s babbling, he knows, anxiously stalling for time while Hanzo just stares at the thin, silver ring in its little felt box, not saying a word, a look of surprise frozen on his face.

“Y’know, darlin’, if you keep that up, it’s gonna stick like th—”

“Yes.”

McCree nearly tips over. “Really?”

“Yes, I’ll marry you.” Hanzo’s beaming, wide and beautiful, and he leans down to meet McCree halfway as he gets to his feet.

“Really, darlin’?” McCree says, on cloud nine, hands shaking as he tries to get the ring out of its box and on Hanzo’s finger. “You really wanna?”

“Yes!” Hanzo cries, with enthusiasm just this side of hysterical. “I’ll marry you!”

McCree’s laughing, on the other side of hysterical. “You’re gonna marry me!”

“I _am_!”

The engagement ring fits perfectly. Later, when they pick out their wedding bands, Hanzo asks for the exact same kind.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments are always welcome.


End file.
